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KELLI

T he lights in this place never turn off. They just dim. Like Glimner’s trying to pretend it knows what sleep is, when really it’s just waiting for the next body to drop.

I lie on the cot—if you can call it that—and stare up at the ceiling that’s peeling like old skin. There’s a leak near the vent that drips every thirty-two seconds. I counted. It’s the kind of thing that would drive a normal person mad. But I passed normal a long time ago.

Petru’s compound is a maze of iron and filth dressed up in velvet and lies.

On the outside, it looks like power. Inside, it smells like fear.

Burnt metal, perfume, and sweat. People like to romanticize crime syndicates—call them empires, make them sound regal.

But this? This is just a dressed-up cage. And I’m the showpiece.

They call me “The Pure One.” Like I’m some rare relic. A porcelain doll nobody’s allowed to touch. My skin’s pale, my hair’s kept long and blonde like some kind of stupid fairy tale. But the only story here is the one they made up—that I’m clean. Virginal. Perfect.

Petru likes that word. Perfect.

What he means is I’m untouched. Marketable. Exotic in a planet crawling with blood and bad intentions. Humans are rare here. One like me? Raised in captivity, molded to be docile?

Gold.

I was twelve the first time I figured out what I was. A prize. Not a person. Not anymore.

He’d just finished gutting some guy in the atrium—another gang leader who got brave—and came back dripping in green blood. Looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t worry, sweet thing. You’re safe. You’re not like them.”

I should’ve been afraid. I wasn’t. I was numb. And I’ve stayed that way ever since.

Now I’m twenty-three, and this place has grown roots around my spine. The other girls come and go. Some work the clubs. Some end up in boxes. I stay in silk and glass. I’m shown off at meetings like a status symbol. “Petru’s human.” Like I’m a damn collector’s item.

Only person who sees me as anything but a painting is Silpha.

Petru’s sister is sharp around the edges. She doesn’t like me. Never has. But lately… she’s different. Less venom, more silence. I think she’s starting to see the bars on her own cage. I don’t blame her. We’re both ornaments—just dressed in different costumes.

“Kelli,” she says now, knocking once before barging in. She never waits for permission.

I sit up. “It’s barely morning.”

“You’re being summoned. Clean up. Wear the silver.”

My gut twists. Silver means something’s happening. Big meeting, maybe. New client. Or worse—another offer.

“Who’s here?” I ask.

She looks at me, really looks, like she’s deciding whether I deserve the truth. Her lips press thin.

“Someone Petru wants to impress.”

I don’t ask more. She wouldn’t answer anyway.

She tosses the dress onto the bed. It's thin. Practically see-through. Typical. I change in silence. The air is cold, the fabric colder. I’ve learned not to shiver. Petru doesn’t like weakness. Neither do the guards.

Silpha watches me in the mirror, arms crossed. “You could make this easier, you know.”

“What? Smile pretty? Say thank you for the privilege?”

She doesn’t flinch. “I’m not your enemy, Kelli.”

“Sure,” I mutter. “You just manage the keys to my cage.”

She leaves after that. I don’t blame her.

I finish tying the dress and brush out my hair. No makeup. Petru says I look “more innocent” without it. I stare at my reflection. Pale face, dark eyes. I don’t see innocence. I see a weapon carved out of obedience.

I walk the halls alone. Guards posted at every corner, pretending not to notice me. They always look, though. Even if they try not to. Being human here makes me rare. Being Petru’s property makes me dangerous.

I reach the viewing chamber and wait by the side wall. The floors gleam with obsidian tile, polished so bright I can see my face in it. Velvet drapes hang from the ceiling. Everything in here whispers money. Money built from blood and bones.

I cross my arms, ignoring the cold.

I don’t know what’s worse—being paraded in front of gang leaders who want to barter for me, or being ignored completely. One makes my skin crawl. The other makes me forget I ever existed.

But the worst part?

Hope.

Hope’s a knife. And I’ve been carving it into my ribs for years.

Every once in a while, someone new shows up. A merc. A smuggler. Someone with fire behind their eyes. And I think—Maybe this is it. Maybe they’ll see me. Maybe they’ll help.

They never do.

The last one barely looked at me. Just grunted and left. Maybe he was smart. Maybe he saw what this place does and didn’t want to catch the infection.

I don’t even know what I’d do if someone offered freedom. I talk a big game. But truth is, I’ve been caged so long, I’m not sure I remember how to fly.

Still. I wait.

Because there’s a part of me—a stupid, stubborn little flame—that refuses to go out. I keep it buried deep, beneath the layers of silk and submission. I feed it with every small act of rebellion. Every time I roll my eyes when Petru isn’t looking. Every time I let Silpha see I’m not broken.

That fire? It’s all I’ve got left.

And someday, it’s gonna burn this whole place down.